


The birds, the flowers and the trees

by virosodi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hiking, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 13:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15797655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virosodi/pseuds/virosodi
Summary: Hank and Connor go hiking and fall in love even more.





	The birds, the flowers and the trees

**Author's Note:**

> watch me make hiking sappy and emotional. also hank is whipped but what’s new. and also!!! i don't usually use swear words in the narration, but they go well with hank's mood here so i decided to leave them~

 

* * *

 

Staring at Connor skipping on the trail ahead, Hank wonders, for the hundredth time over the last two hours, how the _fuck_ he got himself into this situation. Winded and drenched in sweat at seven in the morning, dragging himself through the woods to climb some mountain he didn’t even know existed, his back snapping in two, lungs in his throat, Connor beaming brighter than the sun, and the answer remains the same. It’s always Hank’s own fucking fault for not knowing how to say no to him.

 _It will be fun, Lieutenant_ , he said, and there it was. _Lieutenant_ , because only Connor could make his stiff ass title sound so loving and affectionate, and that was enough to lug Hank out of his bed before dawn to go on a hike that will most likely end up with him rolling down the slope.

“Fuck, Connor, wait—”

Hank slips on a stone, stops and folds in half, hands on his knees, trying to calm down his breathing and ease the pain in his back. It doesn’t do anything and just as he wishes to be thirty again and more strong-willed, Connor hops down to him and bends his head, eyes twinkling.

“We could take a break if you’re tired, there’s a glade fifteen minutes from here,” he tucks Hank’s hair behind his ear and rests his hand there, smoothing his thumb over Hank’s skin. His fingers are cold and tender, and Hank wants them to stay, but Connor’s hand shifts and lands on his shoulder with a pat.

"Yeah, okay," Hank rasps and straightens, grimacing when his knee cracks.

There’s no sweat on Connor’s neck, no flush, his hair is unruffled, breath steady, he’s dressed in Hank’s old sweater, zipped up to his chin, and Hank feels like he’s having a sunstroke just from looking at him.

“All right, let’s fucking go.”

Connor beams at him and starts marching up the hill.

When they reach the clearing, after what feels like a lifetime, Hank drops his backpack to the ground and slumps on the grass, parched and out of breath. He reaches for his water and drains it while Connor sits cross-legged near the creek, his eyes are wide open, searching and analyzing, hands clasped together on his thighs, LED blinking. He looks like he’s just entered a museum.

“You like it here?” Hank eyes Connor over his bottle and takes the last swig, stretches his legs.

Connor nods, watching the clear pool of water in the stream. “It’s very”—he hesitates for a while and turns to Hank, his eyes thoughtful—“scenic. And peaceful. Although quite humid.”

It is, Hank supposes, reaching behind to peel his wet t-shirt off his back, a pretty nice spot. There are flowers hidden in the grass, tiny and colorful, water flowing through, butterflies fluttering in the air and birds chirping. Somewhere over their heads a hawk flies by and disappears into the forest, morning mist hovers at the edge of the glade, sun breaks through the clouds. It shines on Connor’s fingers and the tip of his nose.

“I can’t wait to see the view from the top, though. I downloaded the pictures along with the map, but I believe it should feel different experiencing it live,” Connor says, his voice too eager, eyes too bright.

Hank wants to tell him it’s not just about the view, but he doesn’t. Instead, he hums, leaning further onto his backpack.

“We have to get there first,” he mutters and Connor smiles at him. It’s tender, fleeting, but Hank catches it and his head swims a little.

“Two hours and we’ll reach the top,” Connor’s voice is soft, eyes twinkling as he turns back to the creek, and he looks so ridiculously beautiful, Hank forgets what two hours of climbing actually mean.

He watches Connor pull up his sleeve and sink his hand into the stream, stares at his fingers, how he peels his skin away and lets the water flow between them, quiet and unmoving. It calms Hank down, the slow pull of the water, wind gusting through the trees, Connor’s sun-kissed cheeks and his fingers swaying with the stream.

It calms him down to the point Hank doesn’t feel like moving anymore and Connor has to drag him back to the trail, two backpacks hung over his shoulders. He laughs at Hank’s protests, clutching his hand, and leads the way, fingers marble-like and cold from the creek.

They walk up the hill, Hank staring down at the track, trying to focus on the morning breeze instead of his wheezing, and Connor running around, scanning every little thing he can spot. He tells Hank about the birds, the flowers and the trees, lists their shade tolerance and favored soil type, and Hank listens to it all, hums along, takes pictures of some of them, even if Connor reminds him he has everything memorized in his database. When they stop for a rest, Hank tilts his camera a little, just enough to capture Connor smoothing his hands over the grass, yellow petals between his fingers, sunlight streaming over his cheeks.

Connor gets more restless as they approach the peak, he quickens his pace so much, Hank can’t keep up, and disappears behind the branches far up the trail after yelling something about the view. Hank keeps going, despite every fiber of his being telling him to roll over, cursing every second now that Connor’s not around to distract him, backpack clinging to his wet t-shirt, rocks digging into his heels.

He manages it at last, scrambles on top of that goddamn mountain, almost spitting his lungs out, and hunches over, hand clasped on a boulder for support. When his breathing calms down a little and the ground stops drifting, Hank shoves his backpack behind the rocks, looking up, but instead of the view, he stares at Connor.

He’s standing near the edge, watching the horizon, his lips are parted, LED calm blue. The wind blows through his hair and Connor breathes in, even though he doesn’t have to, eyes blinking from the sun streaming over his face, and suddenly it’s worth it.

The blisters, the sweat, getting dragged out of the bed before dawn on a Sunday morning, his back breaking in half, lungs aching — all of it doesn’t matter anymore.

Connor turns around, beams when he spots Hank at the end of the trail, and he looks so happy, Hank’s heart melts. His hair is a mess, curls falling over his forehead, eyes bright, fingers hidden in the sleeves of his sweater, and Hank can’t look away. He stares, rooted to the ground, as Connor strides closer and throws his arms around him, hugging Hank so tight, his breath catches.

“Jesus, Connor, I’m sweaty and disgusting—“

“I don’t mind,” Connor looks up at him, hands clasped together on the small of Hank’s back, lips curling into a smile, and Hank gives up. He brushes Connor’s hair away and kisses his temple, draping his arm around Connor’s waist.

He smells like pine forests and the wind, and Hank closes his eyes.

They sit near the edge, backpacks tucked behind the rocks, water in Hank’s hand, Connor next to him looking at the view with his chin on his knees. Hank pulls his sweatshirt on and chews on an apple, following the trace of Connor’s fingers gliding over the mountain range as he tells Hank about every summit in front of them, voice soft and quiet.

It’s peaceful and tender, and Hank takes his eyes off the horizon to look at Connor instead. He stares at his profile, traces the line of his jaw, the little dip in his chin, his cheeks dotted with birthmarks, the tip of his nose, eyes crinkling every time the sun breaks through the clouds. His dimples show up when Connor says something about igneous rocks, or ingenious, Hank wouldn’t know, but he's sure his heart rate spikes so high, it soars right past the fucking Moon.

Connor stops mid-sentence, turning around to look at him, arm outstretched, and Hank doesn’t even try to hide it. He smiles, reaching between them to take Connor’s hand, fingers slow and gentle.

“I was boring you,” Connor says, hesitant, but there’s a smile on his lips and his fingers stay warm in Hank’s hand.

Hank brushes the curl away from Connor’s forehead, his touch feather-light, and whispers, hoping he will understand.

“No, Connor. Not at all.”

And he does. Something blooms in Connor’s eyes, something fond and loving, and he smiles, bright and sweet, entwining their fingers, resting his head on Hank’s shoulder. Hank looks at the horizon, even though he doesn’t see it anymore, fiddles with Connor’s hair as he talks about all the places they could see, and wonders, heart aching, how many years Connor has promised him without thinking.

They fall silent for a while, eyes closed, wind dancing in their hair, sunlight on their cheeks, until Connor speaks up again, warm and quiet.

“It’s not just about the view, Hank,” he says, turning around to look at him, and Hank’s heart falters. “Or the birds, or the flowers, or the trees. I got to experience all of this with you and I— I’m—”

Connor’s voice breaks, his lips quiver, LED circling.

“I’m just happy,” he whispers, soft and sincere, and his eyes crinkle when he breaks into a smile so bright, Hank’s head spins. “I’m so happy.”

Connor breaths out, his sigh weak and shaky, and leans forward, curls around Hank, digging his fingers into Hank's sweatshirt, face hidden in the crook of his neck.

Hank opens his mouth, but the words get stuck in his throat, suddenly scarce and lacking, and Connor understands. He always does. His fingers relax when Hank runs his hand along Connor’s back, hugging him tighter, nose buried in Connor’s hair, whole world reduced to the two of them, holding each other close.

Later, when they’re back in the car after running down the trail, laughing and cursing at the rain, Hank takes Connor’s face in his hands and kisses him, eyes warm with mirth, wet streaks on their temples and Connor’s lips curled into a smile so sweet, Hank’s heart swells.

Outside, raindrops crash into the glass, trees sway with the wind and a silent _I love you_ echoes through the vale.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! <3 the mountain and the creek and like everything is made up lmao. also i’m not a native english speaker so sorry if something got messed up. you can check out [my other hankcon one-shot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15627669) if you like plants and slow dancing <3 and u can find me on my tumblr sideblog [@gvynbleidd](http://gvynbleidd.tumblr.com/).
> 
> also u may be wondering why connor brought a backpack along if he doesn’t drink and all that jazz but consider those: immersion _and_ looking cute


End file.
